


When It's Time

by goddity



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Holiday, M/M, Plug and Play, memory sharing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-29
Updated: 2016-11-29
Packaged: 2018-09-03 00:39:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8689822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goddity/pseuds/goddity
Summary: Tailgate showers Cyclonus in gifts. Cyclonus gives Tailgate an experience.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [d0nkarnage](https://archiveofourown.org/users/d0nkarnage/gifts).



> based off of a tweet by jro
> 
> before i saw a follow-up tweet and realized i had written a fic that was exactly what his first tweet implied
> 
>  
> 
> merry christmas, wife

The evening had been a dull roar in the bar, surrounded by mechs that Cyclonus felt very little for, with music he cared very little for, with drinks he didn’t care for. The sounds were too many and too loud, the mechs were too many and too loud, and the only mech that Cyclonus _did_ care about spending the evening with was enjoying himself enough that the not-Decepticon found it hard to actually bring himself to complain. 

 

It was a special evening, after all.

 

Tailgate had been exchanging stories across the bar, small white frame engulfed in a halo of neon from the distillery behind him. The minibot have had three, four, maybe five drinks. Swerve had been a bit generous with the high grade, more generous than usual, passing out cups like they had survived the end of the universe. Again. Seeing Tailgate surrounded by mechs, laughing, drinking, singing; it reminded Cyclonus of home. Despite everything, Tailgate had made a home for himself on the _Lost Light._ Cyclonus would have envied it if he didn’t see some of the benefits of calling the ship home. It wasn’t home, it never would be, but it had benefits.

 

The blue minibot always seemed surrounded by friends. He hadn’t spent much time on Cybertron but did nothing but flourish since waking up. He was envious, in a way. The Dead Universe hadn’t been so kind, it hadn’t left them _better_ mechs. Tailgate, however, had spent centuries in the ground, alone, unaware. He woke up to a burned and broken Cybertron, surrounded by mechs he didn’t know - thiking Pax and Prime were two different mechs, Primus preserve him - and he recovered anyway. He made friends. Tailgate did something, somehow, someway, to make every mech gather around. Most mechs seemed to enjoy his company enough to seek him out, as a matter of fact. Cyclonus could hardly name instances wherein he saw Tailgate alone, save for the times when _they_ were alone. It was rarer now than it had been when Tailgate first arrived, when he came clean about the _Ark-1_ , when he had been teaching him to sing… 

 

He would be patient. It was a special evening. Rushing Tailgate would have just made the little mech worry. He was generally too caught up in being polite to ever actually complain about Cyclonus’ standoffish behavior. The least he could do, tonight, is wait until Tailgate was ready to leave. He hadn’t even bothered announcing himself to the minibot, seeing as if he knew he was waiting he would just prepare himself to rush out anyway.

 

Cyclonus, however, did draw the line at the drink that _Whirl_ seemed to tell Swerve to make and serve to Tailgate. He crossed the bar in a few great strides, ever aware of the presence he commanded. He gently placed a singular clawed hand over Tailgate’s shoulder, eliciting a sharp _eep!_ and a jump from the small mech. The response he received when Tailgate turned around was much warmer. 

 

“Cyclonus!” His voice and field bubbled with enthusiasm and warmth. Tailgate was a bit beyond tipsy but would sober up easily. Thankfully, the little thing seemed to be able to handle more than his fair share of high grade after Velocity explained what the radiation had done to his spark. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know it was you!” 

 

“It’s fine.” Cyclonus was terse as ever. There was no need for softness or curiosity in the company of others. Tailgate knew who he was. He spun on the bar stool, legs swinging a bit as he moved to face the larger mech. 

 

Cyclonus never wanted to stay for a drink. Tonight was no exception. Engex didn’t react well with a mech of his age, with a mech who tried to keep so much to himself. He had once heard of a alien species, one that specifically repressed their emotions out of weakness. 

 

He could relate.

 

Things had been different, before the war. People didn’t just _talk_ about things. Not where others could hear. Not with mechs who hadn’t performed the Acts. 

 

“You wanna go?” Tailgate asked softly. 

 

Other mechs were unlikely to abandon a good time like this, but Tailgate had mastered an understanding of Cyclonus’ silences. With a steady hand, he helped the less steady mech to the floor, servos at the back of his neck as he gently led him out of the bar. The moment the doors shuttered behind them and released them into the hall, Cyclonus relaxed a bit. Not enough for another mech to notice, but enough that he knew Tailgate had felt it. The two had spent enough time in silence that even a small shift in their fields was noticeable. The not-Decepticon was still unsure of it it was a positive or a negative trait. 

 

Their shared habsuite was a bit of a walk from Swerve’s and Tailgate had few problems with filling the silence, knowing they were unlikely to be heard with almost the entire crew at the bar. While he had no problems with being heard, he knew Cyclonus preferred a private conversation.

 

“Did you like the candies I left out for you?” He asked, reaching back to lightly grasp Cyclonus’ hand. “I got them from Rung! He said that they weren’t too sweet, and I know you weren’t a fan of the sweeter ones…”

 

Cyclonus felt his intake bob at the light but firm grip around his servos. The Four Acts had come and gone but the two had said very little about the process. He hadn’t even worked up the nerve to ask Tailgate how deliberate they’d been - if they’d been deliberate at all. He could have been tricked, he was so trusting... They’d said even less about what was supposed to come next.

 

“They were fine.” Despite the brisque response, Tailgate knew it was meant to be a compliment. Cyclonus never seemed to be enthusiastic about gifts, but always ate what Tailgate gave him and always thanked him when they were gone. The little mech was unsure if it was out of courtesy or actually liking it, which made it difficult to know what to get him next. He wanted to get Cyclonus gifts he liked, candies he could enjoy, even, but he was never open enough about his interests.

 

More than anything, he wanted to know that he was doing the right thing.

 

The purple mech wasn’t exceptionally receptive or helpful when it came to giving gifts, or receiving gifts, or… much of anything Tailgate found to be easy. Cyclonus never wanted to hang out with friends to talk about the movies they’d watched with Swerve, or sit down with a glass of high grade and talk about the things they did before the war, or the planets they’d seen or the mechs they’d met. Tailgate couldn’t contribute very much, given his situation, but always had questions and comments and he _loved_ to listen. Once, he’d sat with Rung and let the doctor tell him about every uniquely constructed corridor on the _Ark-1_. He didn’t remember much of the conversation, but he remembered that Rung thanked him for listening. 

 

He didn’t think, in retrospect, that Cyclonus had ever thanked him for anything. But that wasn’t Cyclonus. Cyclonus never even really seemed to have wanted any of the stuff in the first place. 

 

“I was thinking that we could break open that bottle of high grade I bought. I know you don’t really like drinking at Swerve’s, but it’s the anniversary of our departure! And, yeah, we’ve been through a lot of scrap but…” Tailgate hesitated, wondering if he could continue his thought.

 

Cyclonus looked down at him, inquisitive.

 

“But despite everything, I’m glad I came. I’m glad that I’m here. And I think we should celebrate!” The joy shot out of his field like knives while a smile threatened to play on Cyclonus’ faceplates. A threat he very quickly subdued. 

 

Tailgate was too generous, too welcoming, too kind - it could have been a mistake, The Four Acts. 

 

“If that’s what you want.” He was never inclined to admit it, not to Tailgate, not to anyone, but Cyclonus was nervous. 

 

It was a very special evening.

 

“Are you alright?” Tailgate asked as the door to their shared suite opened and he was ushered inside. “You seem worried.”

 

More than anything, Cyclonus _hated_ that Tailgate could read him. At times, it was a valuable resource - Cyclonus never had to tell Tailgate that he wanted to leave Swerve’s - but at a time like this, it made his spark casing tighten. 

 

“I’m not.” 

 

A firm hand guided Tailgate to sit on the berth that was not his own, Cyclonus sitting beside him, silent for a moment that felt like centuries. The room remained unlit, only a thin strip of light poking under the door and the glow of their optics to distinguish their silhouettes from the shadows that engulfed the rest of the room. This sort of thing felt better under the guise of darkness, as many things had in Tetrahex. 

 

Things had been so different before the war. Mechs didn’t have to triple check their locks to have conversations. Mechs didn’t point fingers at Cyclonus for being less than expressive. It was normal. It was the way things were _supposed_ to be, but here was Tailgate, asking if he was alright and asking what he wanted, and trying to offer him things, all where people could hear. Performing Acts and asking questions to mechs who had no rightful business knowing what did (or didn’t) happen behind their habsuite door. 

 

But things should have been said behind those doors. Maybe they should have been said in front of people. Some things needed to be said. 

 

This time, he was certain.

 

This time, Cyclonus would say them. 

 

“Tailgate,” He started, words languid and poorly rehearsed. Saying them aloud, in front of Tailgate, was surprisingly more difficult than thinking of saying them to Tailgate. And this was not a conversation for a commlink. This _had_ to be said, out loud, presented to Primus and Tailgate with equal importance and nothing but true intent. “I appreciate the gifts you have given me, but I have nothing I can give you in return.”

 

The little white servos made themselves comfortable lacing with his own. “I don’t mind.” Tailgate whispered gently, sending a hot fervent blush across Cyclonus’ faceplates. He allowed himself a squeeze in response, tucking a leg up onto the berth. Even easy things seemed difficult to say to Tailgate. 

 

“I like giving you things,” Tailgate said, tracing his thumb over the small rivets in Cyclonus’ palm. “It makes me feel good. And it gives me a chance to get to know you better! I can figure out what you like about things, or-or what you _don’t_ like about things, and we get to share new things together.”

 

_Primus, preserve._

 

“But I do have something I wish to give you.” Cyclonus attempted to continue, resetting his vocalizer before he lost his nerve.

 

“W-Wait!” Tailgate withdrew his hand, waving them in front of his chassis, soft white armor catching the purple light from their mingled optics. “There’s something _really_ important I have to tell you, and it can’t really wait.”

 

His intake bobbed. 

 

“Then don’t hesitate.” Cyclonus felt he hid his nervousness well. 

 

If it was bad news, the entire evening would go awry. If it was bad news, what was Cyclonus supposed to do? It had taken him long enough to get up the nerves do this in the first place. One misstep could ruin the entire plan. What would he even _say_ if Tailgate had bad news? What if this entire time Cyclonus had been misreading his intentions? 

 

Tailgate flushed, optics sparking slightly.

 

“R-Right, don’t hesitate.” He said, hesitating. “Okay, I didn’t _just_ get candies from Rung. I went and I talked to him, which, um, I know is something I’m _supposed_ to do. But it was really important, and I needed to talk to him before I talked to you!

 

“So, um, Getaway-” Cyclonus resisted the urge to punch _anything_. “-had told me about the Four Acts, but I wasn’t sure if they were real, and I wanted to ask someone that might know and it’s not like I thought you _wouldn’t_ know but you don’t always like to talk about things like that so I asked Rung, and he told me about a few things and I thought….”

 

Cyclonus rolled his unoccupied hand, red optic light flashing between his servos and suggesting Tailgate continue. He found that, more often than not, if he interrupted Tailgate while he was speaking, he was likely to lose the thought or the courage.

 

It didn’t seem like bad news. 

 

He didn’t want to admit it, but it seemed like something Cyclonus had desperately wanted to hear. 

 

Tailgate’s fans clicked on as he made an effort to continue. Cyclonus kept his off, despite his HUD’s suggestions. Despite that, in all likelihood, Tailgate could feel the heat coming off him. 

 

“I thought that maybe the gifts would have been obvious, since we hadn’t really talked about things, and Rung said that before the _Ark-1_ left, old Cybertron actually used the Four Acts but a lot of places had extended versions and things weren’t always short and some places had more steps and….

 

“And I wanted to make sure I was doing things right. I wanted to make sure that you knew what I was trying to do.”

 

Cyclonus felt the small fingers tighten around his own, Tailgate’s optics sparking hard enough that the purple mech feared he might actually have another attack. There was a sharp whir as Tailgate’s fans kicked to a higher setting - a setting high enough that it would nearly have Tailgate shouting over it to be heard. 

 

“B-Because I-I love you!”

 

If all of space and time had ever considered stopping their movements, it was this moment.

 

It was a moment that consisted solely of two mechs, in a dark, shared habsuite, servos and optics locked, discussing what they should have discussed cycles ago. He could feel the cosmos moving around them, the distance but primal beating of the spark of Primus. All feeling flushed from his processor, replaced by a deep and incomprehensible warmth that Cyclonus had never imagined could flood his entire body. 

 

Cyclonus found himself at a loss for words.

 

Cyclonus was _not_ a young mech. He had done wrong, he had done things he would never atone for. He had done things he would never forgive himself for. He had lost his home, his closest compatriots, he had fought to even have a chance back on Cybertron after having had a hand in so much destruction. There was a darkness in his spark that he could never truly erase and would never leave him, not after the Dead Universe.

 

Tailgate, sweet and precious Tailgate. Tailgate, who was worth every damn star in the sky and every planet that circled one. Tailgate, the only mech who had made the journey worthwhile. Tailgate…. _Tailgate_ , the little blue mech who loved him. 

 

The little blue mech, who beyond all odds, saw good in him. The mech who loved him. Who had discovered his true potential for him. Who had performed the Four Acts for him. The little blue mech who bought candies and high grade, who sang with him, who he’d nearly lost twice. 

 

The little blue mech he’d trade his own spark for. 

 

Cyclonus had experienced many things in his lifetime, but there was nothing he dared to compare to his feelings for Tailgate. He pulled the smaller mech to him, cautious of a tight embrace even with his outlier strength, pressing his cheek to the top of his helm and daring to smile when he felt his small blue arms wrap around him. He could feel the heat of his spark threatening to burn through his chassis and the hard, desperate rumble of his fans trying to cool it. 

 

In Tailgate, in their touch, he could feel the universe. He could _hear_ the spark of Primus thrumming within him. Tailgate was the universe. 

 

Cyclonus did not dream while in recharge. Cyclonus had not dreamed in centuries, but if he had dared, if he truly tried, he could not have dreamed this moment. 

 

_Years_ he had spent on this ship, years they had been drifting, years he had wondered if Rodimus had been right to tell him he could stay… 

 

Every last moment; every shot he had taken, every battle he’d endured, Whirl, Overlord, Megatron, _Getaway,_ every last moment had been worth what came in this single, infinite moment. If the universe fell apart around them, if everything truly stopped, Cyclonus would have let it. 

 

“Tailgate,” The name carried new weight. “I could not comprehend how anyone would not love you.” 

 

Soft whirring and hiccups were the triggered response, along with a tightened grip. Cyclonus lifted Tailgate’s helm, only receiving more tears with optic-contact.

 

_Years_ he had spent on this ship, and never once had Tailgate actually seen Cyclonus smile - not about a single thing. To think, him, a tiny blue mech who recklessly told lies when he arrived, who had spent millions of years underground, _he_ was what made Cyclonus smile…

 

In that smile, in the soft sharp upturn of Cyclonus’ mouth, Tailgate felt the heat of the sun. He felt his body trying to give out, his spark stressed and weakened from this incredible confession, but hopelessly clinging to consciousness - just to hold onto this singular, incomprehensible image. Tailgate cursed himself, not too terribly, for having not been an archivist. For just a moment, to record and store this away, to steal this one beautiful moment from the universe. 

 

“You-You mean that, right?” He hastily wiped at the cleansing fluid pouring freely down his faceplate and onto Cyclonus and the berth, truthfully knowing that Cyclonus wasn’t the sort of mech who would lie to Tailgate to spare his feelings. He had been explicitly told not to hope, after all. 

 

“Yes.” Cyclonus answered simply, cupping either side of Tailgate’s helm before gently pressing a kiss to his faceplate, only withdrawing another sharp whine and more tears from the minibot. His mouth fell to a more default grimace than to a frown, still an improvement as far as they were both concerned. 

 

Cyclonus found himself in shock of many things. The confession, this intimacy, but moreso his own comfort. He had never been an exceptionally vocal mech, he had never even attempted to start a courting process before Tailgate, let alone get so far as a verbal confession. Nonetheless, he sat, with the minibots head cradled between his clawed hands, content to let the universe collapse around them.

 

He had not known peace like this before the _Ark-1_. 

 

He had not known such peace since Tetrahex. 

 

“But I still have no physical gift to give you.”

 

Tailgate, unfortunately, and expectedly, misunderstood. 

 

“ _Oh!_ ” His optics sparked _hard_ in misunderstanding. “C-Cyclonus I know we just confessed and all but I don’t think-”

 

Raising a singular servo was enough to stop Tailgate’s verbal fussing, though stopping the nonverbal was a bit more challenging.

 

“You misunderstand me,” Cyclonus began, delicate in keeping his tone even and soft, knowing how easy it would be for Tailgate to fly off the handle at a time like this. He couldn’t blame him for it - a confession like that… was a lot. A good lot, a lot that Cyclonus was thankful for, given what he intended to share. “In Tetrahex, it was common to give courting gifts. But not candies, or high grade, or… physical things.”

 

The minibot continued to wipe at the fluid, nodding in understanding as static crackled through his vocalizer. He hated seeing the minibot like this, knowing that the stress was so difficult for him, that the joy was so difficult for him, knowing it was so hard for him to keep those emotions inside. It would have been upsetting if things had been different - but it was unfair to resent or belittle Tailgate for expressing himself. This wasn’t Tetrahex. Tailgate wasn’t him. 

 

But in a way, he could be. 

 

“So, I…. intend to share the only thing I’m able to give you.”

 

With a soft _schtick!_ Cyclonus opened a side panel on his chassis. Three ports and three wires exposed themselves, a simple system of inputs and outputs. He felt a heat rise to his faceplates, unable to be dissuaded. While most mechs didn’t see much intimacy in plug-and-play anymore, Cyclonus was not among them.

 

Apparently, neither was Tailgate, who had begun to glow so brightly that Cyclonus could actually see a large percentage of his face from the combined light of faceplates and optics. 

 

“ _O-Oh._ ” Tailgate said with an audible waver, visibly nervous about reaching for his own panel. 

 

Cyclonus remained gentle, knowing patience was worth everything in this situation.

 

“You don’t have to plug in to me.” He said, a gentle hand placed to his side, his thumb over his panel. “There is something I wish to show you. You don’t have to show me anything in return, and you’re under no obligation to ever show me anything.”

 

Tailgate let the panel move aside, small white servos guiding Cyclonus to the ports.

 

“However, it’s important to me that you see this.”

 

“I want to.” Tailgate said softly, voice still shaky. The older mech felt bad; it felt like taking advantage of Tailgate. He was emotionally vulnerable and unfortunately likely to agree to anything Cyclonus wished. Thankfully, this was harmless, but it didn’t entirely feel right.

 

When he attempted to withdraw, the minibot stopped him.

 

“I’ll-I’ll be okay. I promise. I-I can stop you if I’m not.” 

 

He let another smile pass over his face as he nodded, keeping the minibot close and resting his chin atop his head as he offlined his optics and opened the channel.

 

 

 

Never in his life had Tailgate _ever_ imagined anything so beautiful. 

 

The ground opened in a wide circle, sunlight pouring in from above and illuminating a vast, shining silver city. Buildings pierced through the circle and into the sky, welcoming fliers from every direction. Spires and cathedrals dancing through the streets, their absence punctuated by kaleidoscopes of color from buildings of every kind; conical and rectangular layered in rows that seemed to vanish into the darkness outside the circle, but reaching ever onward. 

 

Fliers left streaks of color behind them as they passed overhead, moving between the structures and past each other as they made their way through the city. Sunlight danced on their cockpits, colored glass imprinting the buildings before they vanished into darkness or onto rooftops. Speedsters zipped through the streets, lights on either side of the road illuminating their tires and rims and bouncing reflected light everywhere. Every movement elicited a spectacle of light entirely unique and new as different mechs made their way about their lives. 

 

Tailgate had never seen so many Cybertronians in one place, let alone so many different frames or alt modes!

 

Mechs walked the street, some painted in glyphs, others plain and simple in a very small variety of colors; blues, purples, reds, greys… All simple but elegant, sharp corners and wide shoulders. They all spoke in words that Tailgate didn’t understand - he wasn’t sure if he wasn’t hearing them well enough, or if they talked too quickly, but he didn’t understand. 

 

In the middle of the spires, in the center of the circle beneath the sun, was a great glass pyramid, with golden sides and gilded bars that stretched over it in the shape of an asterisk. The entrance towered over him, welcoming despite it’s size. Even the door had gilded details, glyphs dancing in the light.

 

Two frosted doors slid aside, bathing him in warmth and the intense glow of the sun from above. It’s beams danced on desks and shelves and walls, prismatic light enticing beautiful rainbows into every corner of the great hall. The glow danced off beautiful statues that threatened to transform and leave the pyramid themselves, towering over any mech who chose to approach them - and even those who didn’t. 

 

He actually recognized one of the massive mechs, a great golden effigy of Primus. Mechs kneeled at the feet of the statues, praying, singing, leaving offerings. 

 

_Oh! This was a church._

 

Offerings decorated the pedestals of the statues; candies, bowls filled with coins, written notes, small containers of high grade, even _innermost energon_...

 

With a little investigation, Tailgate realized he stood among statues of The Guiding Hand. Cyclonus had tried to explain it to him much, and he in truth hadn’t understood much of it, but seeing them… Hearing them…. All of this, he felt he understood. None of the statues were labelled, but he felt he know them.

 

His knees bent beneath him, placing him at the colossal gilded feet of a stocky looking mech, who didn’t felt he knew. But as he looked up at the figure, he did. 

 

_Solomus?_

 

He placed his wrists together, letting his palms fall open to the deity, as was traditional with Tetrahexian prayer. Golden glyphs danced over his servos, on each finger, complicated and beautiful. Tailgate had seen some of them before, the ones that were on both his pointer servos, he thought. They were in truth, the symbols used for each Finger of The Guiding Hand. The base of each servo was decorated in gold, soft circles wrapping around the finger and traveling up to the first knuckle. He couldn’t help but notice that the symbols on the right hand were more precise than the left, so they had been hand painted… 

 

But they were beautiful. Rewind had told him that courting couples would decorate themselves with Old Cybertronian glyphs and phrases during their Acts and rituals, saying sweet loving things - and that gold was important. Painting with gold was, what had he said? Symbolic of Primus, probably. Primus guided your sparks, or something to that effect. 

 

A voice, a sudden and warm sound, pulled Tailgate away from his thoughts. 

 

The voice that came from Tailgate was not his own. It was deep, sorrowful but passionate, and it sang. It sang deeply and beautiful in a tongue that Tailgate understood despite not knowing. 

 

_Cyclonus._

 

Cyclonus was singing. A song of praise, a prayer, in Old Cybertronian. He asked for guidance, for wisdom, for the knowledge that what he was doing was right. Tailgate felt the words flood him, he felt an unparalleled understanding… 

 

_Tetrahex._

 

Tailgate had never been too terribly familiar with Cybertron, granted his unique position before the _Ark-1_ had been due to depart. He had seen photos; old postcards, old photos that some mechs had still kept around, Rewind had shown him some videos once that had been of Iacon, but it was nothing compared to this. Even from the outside, Tetrahex appeared to be a smaller city, but it bustled with life and Tailgate could feel the joy inside his friend’s spark. 

 

The hymnal, he realized what it was as he listened, was languid and soulful, was coming to an end as Cyclonus closed his hands together and stood, leaving behind a small silver token at the feet of Solomus before slowly making his way out of the church.

 

Cyclonus usually took great strides, always in a hurry and moving with purpose, but _this_ Cyclonus stepped lightly, patient and nonplused as mechs hurried about him and moved as they moved between statues. Tailgate had known him to walk with a cold air, but he seemed to be genuinely calm. Happy, even. 

 

Before he could spend another moment concentrating on Cyclonus’ walk of all things, he transformed, letting the ground swallow the buildings beneath him as he took to the sky, wind engulfing him and pulling him towards the open sky beyond the hole in the ground. 

 

Tailgate wasn’t a flier. He had never really flown beyond being on his hoverboard, which wasn’t so much flying as it was hovering, and it hadn’t been much of anything since it had been confiscated. Tasting the sky, feeling the wind, Tailgate mourned what he’d never known. It made so much sense that the fliers always wanted to get off the ship when they stopped, they always wanted to stretch their wings and _this_ was why. 

 

Wind whipped around him, caressing every inch of metal it could reach, cradling him in currents before he was slowly guided to the ground, seamlessly landing on his feet. Already he ached for the sky again, but the ache was numbed when he stepped through a small door to what he had believed to have been a house: after all, it looked like a residence from the outside. 

 

It was, in fact, a bar. It was packed nearly wall-to-wall with mechs, most of whom had already had a bit to drink, but all looked… happy. At least, outwardly happy. He supposed, if people had places to go to other than a bar, there might be fewer sad mechs there. 

 

Cyclonus found a seat next to another flier, a purple mech who appeared to be similar to him in age. The two seemed to be friends…

 

Wait! Tailgate _knew_ this one. That was Scourge! Right?

 

Yes, it was Scourge! He smiled at Cyclonus, putting a glass down in front of him and starting to say something about what he saw outside the circle - something about, a ship? He spoke with a smooth and gentle flare, and Tailgate felt a thrum in his spark. Cyclonus missed Scourge, he knew. 

 

The soft surge he felt when Scourge spoke told him that. More than that, Cyclonus heard every word, he processed them so quickly, he spoke evenly and sounded as prepared as ever. Cyclonus had been friends with Scourge, truly, friends. He loved him. Tailgate could feel it with every word he spoke. 

 

A word, a thought, _something_ rushed through his processor. Tailgate knew this _exact_ sensation, without having to connect it to Scourge, or Tetrahex, or anything but his own feelings. Feelings he hadn’t shared with Cyclonus. Scourge, the bar, this place - it was home. This was his home. Cybertron, Tetrahex...

 

_This_ had been what Cyclonus mourned. Tailgate hadn’t known much about the distant cities of Cybertron, of the home he never knew, but this… This was what Cyclonus missed, this had been why he couldn’t stay behind on Cybertron. He missed his friends, he missed his church, the life he’d known before everything… just happened. Before the war decimated enough of the planet that there was nothing left for a lot of mechs to return to. 

 

Tailgate felt like he was going to short circuit. 

 

He nearly did, feeling his optics surge and coming back online in his own body, Cyclonus’ hands occupied by a gentle caress at his spinal struts. 

 

“Tailgate.” There was a firm but distant concern as all his processes came back to their full efficiency, visions of Tetrahex and Scourge glitching and fading and replacing themselves with a few of Cyclonus. The same Cyclonus, but a different Cyclonus.

 

This Cyclonus didn’t have a Scourge to worry about anymore, but he had Tailgate. A Tailgate who was running a bit too hot and was sparking and _crying_.

 

“I-I’m sorry!” Tailgate was careful but firm in removing the chords, mistaking Cyclonus’ concern for a requested removal. He flinched at the withdrawal, taking a moment to fully online his processes. 

 

“You have nothing to be sorry for.” He stated factually. He let go of the minibot, giving him a moment to gather himself. While he hadn’t shared his thoughts many times, or even experienced many plug-ins himself, he knew it was disorienting to stop being another person, even if it was only in their memories.

 

“N-No…” Tailgate vented, sharply, repeatedly, trying to burn off as much excess heat as he could as quickly as he could. He put his hands to his chassis and briefly inspected them, adjusting to the fact that he was himself again. Cyclonus realized a little too late that it was undeniably Tailgate’s first time. 

 

The realization flooded his spark with guilt. It could have easily been too much for the little mech. The stimulation of wearing someone else’s spark, of walking around in their mind. He felt Cyclonus’ thoughts, his actual feelings, he had flown and drank and prayed - things that he hadn’t experienced with Cyclonus, let alone witnessed in the past. 

 

He should have been more careful, he scolded himself. Tailgate was a fragile mech when it came to emotions. In his short time online, he’d experienced more than most mechs had during the war. He’d taken it all in stride and found joy in the life he’d been given, but to see the past as it was, to know what had been, to have tasted the sweet youth and the bitter present side by side; it couldn’t have been an easy emotional transition. 

 

“Yes, you’re fine, I assure you.”

 

“Cyclonus, it was _beautiful._ ” Tailgate’s voice was thick with static, even as Cyclonus heard his vocalizer resetting. “I-I thought I understood why you missed T-Tetrahex and wh-why you wanted to go _home_ but you couldn’t and…”

 

Cyclonus cautiously put his hand on Tailgate’s, hoping it might have conveyed that he understood, that things were okay.

 

“And I didn’t.” He said softly, systems hiccuped and his optics sparked, still overstimulated. Cyclonus gave him a moment. A moment turned to a few. 

 

The two mechs sat in the dark, only illuminated by their optics, both with a better understanding of the other. Tailgate laced his servos with Cyclonus’. Cyclonus let him, careful in pulling the little mech closer, letting him rest against him. He placed his unoccupied servo against the back of Tailgate’s helm, gently tracing circles as the minibot calmed down, losing himself in the rhythmic purr of his spark. Cyclonus shuttered his optics, content to sit in the dark until he rusted. 

 

“Cyclonus?” Tailgate spoke softly, as if speaking too loud might bring the lights and the rest of the ship back to life around them. 

 

“Tailgate.” 

 

He pressed his helm in the inviting purple chassis. He had thought so long and so often about moments like this, of the moments when it could really just be him and Cyclonus, when the walls would come down and he opened up and they sat, just like this. He thought of the sword, he thought of the scars Cyclonus had given himself. He thought of the warm, welcome arms that welcomed his proclamation. Tailgate shuttered his own optics, thinking only of Cyclonus of Tetrahex, and what the suffix meant. 

 

“Thank you.”

 

Cyclonus pressed his own helm to Tailgate’s. 

 

“I’m sorry I have nothing else to give.” He said, the servo-made circles growing a bit wider.

 

“Are you kidding?” Tailgate chuckled gently, nuzzling into the not-Decepticon. “Cyclonus, I couldn’t have asked for a more beautiful gift. I-I’m just sorry I don’t have much like that to share with you. And-And thank you, again, for sharing. I…. I really liked it.” 

 

Cyclonus felt a soft heat from Tailgate’s faceplates, blushing in the dark. Cyclonus was thankful Tailgate wasn’t looking up to notice his own blush. 

 

“And, well, I sure wouldn’t mind seeing you with gold paint again sometime.”

 

“One step at a time, little one.” He had to admit, Tailgate had grown a bit more bold in the past few cycles. Rightfully so, it seemed. Cyclonus was sure that someone on board had gold… “And your presence is enough of a gift for me. I don’t need high grade, or memories, or candies. Memories can be made, Tailgate.”

 

Tailgate looked up, Cyclonus gently wiped at the cleansing fluid on his face.

 

“I wouldn’t mind making more with you, Tailgate.”


End file.
